


Timshel

by AutumnalCoconut



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (Kuroo doesn't remember), Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Metaphors, Nature, Purple Prose, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, because apparently I can only write angsty purple prose, hinted amnesia, magical au, someone please teach me how to write fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6814024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnalCoconut/pseuds/AutumnalCoconut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They always meet, they always part.<br/>They share a tragic existence which Kuroo never remembers.<br/><i>But Kenma always does.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Timshel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rynezion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynezion/gifts).



> This is for [Fruzsina](http://rynezion.tumblr.com/), who constantly inspires me and created this beautiful AU-- Kuroken tragic story included.  
>  _(I'll up my fluff game, I promise)._
> 
> Title is from here: [[*]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8D7MLsNAb8)

He finds himself alone in the womb of a temple, surrounded by nothing but the strong smell of incense and voices and people murmuring prayers and wishing upon a caged tree. Cold hands, golden eyes-- they burn bright behind closed lids, so luminous in the dark corners of his mind: beacon of guidance in the night, leading to places as safe as safe can be.  
  
_As safe as safe can be._  
  
Crow is still staring at him, judging his uncanny devotion to a cause lost to begin with, thread as red as the blood shed by the one he loved-- and loves, and will love, until the world stops spinning and the nightmares walking among the living become, eventually, living beings themselves. Those nocturnal terrors he himself created still come back to haunt him, halting him in his every motion, guilt holding him down as his body folds on itself, feeling as if it were crushing the organs trapped inside.  
The lights are still covered, for shining upon disclosure is a deadly sin to the cursed one.  
The crow is still there, hovering, knowing, as black as hair gently caressed by the feeble wind.  
_«Tell me, what do you know about the spring?»._  
Invisible fingers are braiding blades of grass and the hill burns fiercely under the setting sun, dust and pollen swirl around as to imitate those tornadoes buried in depth, destroying more than just houses and fields.  
They fly, there.  
Their arms turn into wings, conquering the horizon and hiding the celestial bodies attached to the vault of the sky: no village, no sea, no gate can keep them away-- they come to a stop there where the day finds itself lost amidst the green, at the feet of a decaying chestnut tree stuck in a fatal embrace with wild ivy: as strong as it is, it is a matter of time before it withers under the imperceptible desire of survival.  
  
_(Whispers, skin, longing._  
_Soft cries._  
_When Kenma counts his spinal bones - one by one - Kuroo sounds like a worshipper chanting a hymn)._  
  
He exhales sharply, a shaky breath leaves his burdened chest.  
The golden fires are finally freed from their prison of obscurity, yet Crow has not left: its presence cannot be ignored, black feathers striking as a grim reminder of the fleeting life bound to a strong, but dainty human.  
A mistake he cannot forgive himself for making.  
When he rises, he can feel the weight of the centuries anchor him to the ground; the air is not moving, no sound is corrupting the sacred calmness surrounding him.  
_... What do you know about the spring?_  
The words echo in his mind and suddenly his feet are moving on their own as they lead him outside the temple, he just wants to see the colour of the wind and the sun rays setting the world ablaze, irradiating enough warmth to melt the crippling coldness menacing to stop his heart from beating-- just for a moment, a moment is all he is in need of.  
  
(But the wind is colourless and the air still).  
  
The image in his mind slowly fades, his memories resonate and stretch like tree branches coming from another life: the slumber he found himself in was not a dream, the bones felt under his fingertips were not mere rocks lost in the green.  
He knows what he has lived, he knows what _they_ will live.  
Again. And then again.  
A soft chant comes from the temple, a prayer vibrating in the atmosphere like a hymn and Kenma's entire being falters.  
_And once again._  
He has lived this moment a thousand times, different worlds and different eras, but the pattern repeats itself in the same way history does. He always hopes for a change, a life in which they do not meet, a life in which he is the one who does not remember and _will not_ remember: instead, they are stuck in an indefinite limbo, unbalanced, floating between the realm of the living and the quiet certainty of the dead.  
He should be used to this, but he is not.  
When he turns around, he can see him in the temple, kneeling in front of the Tree of Life. The man sighs out his words with a gentle smile hovering on his lips, a silent sadness lingers behind his gaze: his eyes are open, golden, looking for guidance.  
The smell of incense is strong, it permeates everything and burns in the lungs of the two of them, another invisible connection to seal their souls in the sacred haven where they were lost and now are found.  
_The Tree of Life._  
The fear pushes his way from his lips up to his eyes, where it hangs precariously under the shape of trembling dew drops; it does not fall, but his steps take him closer to whom he is helplessly tied to. The man raises from his crouching form, head tilted to the side as he tries to understand.  
Kenma's voice is worn out from all the existences they have spent together, from all the times he had to explain, and his words delicately turn into a cry: he catches a tear with his index finger and, carefully, places it on the other's forehead.  
  
An apparent quietness consumed in the wait of a storm already foreseen.


End file.
